


Did I Ever Tell You

by NotYetWritten



Series: Did I Ever Tell You [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Protectiveness, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-05-24 19:56:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6164875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotYetWritten/pseuds/NotYetWritten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fill for a prompt on KinkMeme: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/15060.html?thread=59126484</p><p>Hawke comes out of the fade weak and injured. Varric is the only one who can get through to her, convince her to let the healers poke at her, keep her still long enough to feed her, et cetera.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Voice of Reason

_ Did I ever tell you about the time Hawke was on a merchant guild hit list? _

The time spent running, dripping, through the Fade had reached unknowing. At all times she could hear the Nightmare laughing behind her, but she was certain it was just a memory.

Ribs broken, legs torn, blood poured down her body… She would die soon; she knew this. If not from the wounds, hunger would gnaw through her belly or thirst would break her will. She had readied herself for this when she had demanded the Inquisitor leave her behind. But it had dragged on for so long now. She was starting to doubt whether the whole “sacrifice” thing was something was all it was cracked up to be.

A sacrifice just isn’t the same when the Rift closes and you’re left in a dream alone. She had saved Kirkwall only to find herself betrayed by a man she cared for. After narrowly avoiding a brutal fate in the Conclave, she had rendered her assistance to the Inquisition and once again found herself with the short straw.

_ They sent guys from the local Carta to Hawke’s estate one night. Five big dusters, armed to the teeth. _

The air was sharp and burned her lungs as she tried to wedge herself into an alcove to try to tend her wounds before the demon’s spawn caught up to her again. So many of them had fallen that she could no longer tell which blood was hers. Her right arm was completely limp. It had been hours since she had felt any pain in it, or indeed anything at all, but her fingers still twitched with the residual magic of a spell.

The Inquisitor couldn’t have closed all the Rifts. Somewhere ahead there had to be daylight. That smug bastard didn’t get to capitalize on the heroic death of the Champion with his books -- and if the elf truly was the Herald of Andraste, Hawke would be damn sure the bards sung that she was Andraste herself. And Varric would owe her a _ lot _ of alcohol.

_ They kick in the door and Hawke yells, “You’re just in time!” And drags them over to a game of Wicked Grace. They played two hands of cards before the city guard showed up to take them away. _

Something caught Hawke’s attention. She had fallen asleep for a second - or blacked out. It was hard to tell anymore. She dragged her staff towards her with her left arm and used it to get to her feet. At one point it had been a well-cared for piece of equipment but the Fade had deteriorated it to a worn walking stick.

Far away to her right lay the edge of the demon’s domain...or a mirage. There was no way for her to know if it had been there before through the stars in her vision. Beyond it could lie anything, but she was sick to death of nightmares. A change of pace could be interesting. Maybe a desire demon that constantly called out lewd suggestions to her. Anything was better than constantly being reminded of her many failures. She groaned and dragged herself further into the Fade.

_ Hang in there, Hawke. I’ll get you out of here. _

After a time of walking and bleeding over the shapeless plain, she began to notice something different. Nausea. Screaming. Her screams, although she wasn’t making any noise. Where were they coming from? This was the Fade, after all,  _ and dwarves don’t dream _ ...

~

That thought was not her own. Someone had spoken it and the words cut into the Fade to drag her back to reality. She was no longer in the Fade, she realized, and had not been for some time.

She threw up. Twice. The pain in the Fade had been dull and far-away. Hunger pangs had been muted. Here, in the real world, she felt the pain of all her wounds growing like a storm. She screamed for a full minute before she became aware of words.

“…but this is all I can offer. Come on, just like at the Hanged Man.”

She choked as something was poured into her mouth and threw up a third time.

“…too much pain. Her heart…”

“Let me go!” she shouted, not even sure if someone was holding her. The panic she felt was not something she could control and the stars and darkness still dancing in her eyes made it difficult to orient herself.

“Hawke, if you don’t settle down then I won’t let you read my next book.”

That voice was clear as day.  _ Varric. _ Was she safe now? This couldn’t possibly be real.

“I’d li-li-like to see you s-s,” Hawke jibbered, shaking so hard she thought she might break her own spine. But this thought was important. She had to get it out - “st-stop the Champion of Kirkwall f-from buying a book.”

“I have connections. I can have you banned from all the sellers.” There was an emotion to Varric’s voice that was unfamiliar. Anger? Was he upset with her?

“The Her-ald of Andra s te owes me favlor. Flavor. Favor,” Hawke said, and then bit her own tongue.

“Stop talking,” Varric said. “A mage from Tevinter is trying to use blood magic to put your spleen back in.”

“He has the truth of it. There’s enough blood here for me to become a Magister,” came the response. “Someone’s going to have to buy me new clothes after this. Either that or I’ll have to start a new fashion line. Murderous Chic, that’s what I’ll call it.”

For a moment, the pain ebbed and Hawke allowed herself to relax, but as she felt darkness fold around her, she realized she couldn’t stay. She needed to move again before the Nightmare found her...this dream had gone on long enough. She felt around for her staff, finding only a hard leather boot in the process.

“I have to go,” she explained – or she tried to. Her tongue felt three sizes too big for her mouth.

“Maker’s breath, Hawke, I can’t hold you down until Sparkler has put a little more of you back together. Don’t make this worse.”

“Do you two mind? I know I am remarkably skilled and make this look damn easy but I promise you this is quite arduous.”

“Varric,” Hawke said suddenly, reaching her arm out into the air where she thought he might be. She found only empty space. This had to be a dream. She was still in the Fade and the Nightmare’s servants would find her soon -

“You’ll need to work on your hand-eye coordination if you expect anyone to take you seriously,” Varric said, catching her hand. A spark jumped between them as her magic briefly activated, but he didn’t cry out.

“Varric,” Hawke said again, spitting blood – or maybe mud – out of her mouth. “When y-you tell this story. Make sure you draw the parallel-”

“We can talk about my retelling of the story later,” Varric said. “Right now-“

“No, Varric,” Hawke said, jerking her hand back so she had the maneuverability to hit him. She let out a low moan from the pain as she connected with him. It was her mangled hand. “You have to draw the parallel.  _ I came out of the rift behind the Herald. _ ”

Varric laughed, his voice a low vibration in the bit of chest that her hand was now limply resting against.

“Maker’s breath, Hawke. Yes. If you live, I’ll make sure everyone knows you are Andraste watching over the Inquisitor. Die, and I’m going to tell the story about how you screamed like a child the entire time we were in the Fade and we left you there to punish the Nightmare.”

“There won’t be any story telling if she doesn’t stop moving,” Dorian said. “I need to gather lyrium potions. Your girl here is only held together by sarcasm and dreams.”

“Alright,  _ Andraste _ , I know it hurts, but you need to let Sparkler do his weird shit.”

“Here. Try another potion.”

Hawke tried to drink what was offered but the pain in her body intensified rather than receding. Another wave of nausea overcame her and she coughed it up along with more blood/mud/Fade.

“You never could hold your drinks.”

Hawke could hear fear in his jibe. She couldn’t see what state she was in, but she knew she had been slowly amassing wounds that refused to heal. Varric’s soothing voice was keeping her grounded – distracted, even – but the potions and the Tevinter’s ministrations were making the pain intensify rather than recede. She needed to forget her body again. The shell was too broken.

“Tell me a story,” Hawke demanded.

“How about I tell you the story of the Champion of Kirkwall,” Varric said, voice like silk against the pound of blood in her head.

“Mm…is that the brave hero with striking good looks who struggled into the upper class through a daring foray into the Deep Roads?” she asked, pulling her hand back away from him and accidentally hitting herself with it.

“Hero? I wouldn’t use that word per say. Beggar might be more suitable. Or mercenary. Apostate, maybe. Refugee. Fereldan. Thug…”

“So many words. She must be quite impressive.”

“I’ve got plenty more where that came from.”

“Do any of them describe-“

And that was it. Hawke never got to ask what they described because she could feel herself dying again. Her chest felt heavy, her blood sluggish. The Fade fractured all around her and her heart pounded in her thigh.

“VARRIC!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, not caring who was listening. “DON’T YOU DARE LET THIS SACRIFICE WORK. IT WAS A STUPID IDEA AND I TAKE IT BACK!”

She could almost hear his voice in answer.

_ Hang in there, Hawke. I’ll get you out of here. _


	2. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke finds out just how long she was gone.

Bianca’s steady rhythm broke through the darkness:  _ thrum…thrum…thrum…  _  She struggled, trying to call magic through the darkness to fend off whoever was attacking, but she still couldn’t see.  _ They would find her and she would die... _

“Stop!” she screamed, except it wasn’t her voice…it was Varric’s. She felt his wide palms on her hair, stroking the short length to calm her. “Stop, Hawke. You’re safe now.”

“I have to go,” she said urgently.

“No, you have to stay put.”

Hawke began to realize that the sound she was hearing was that of a wagon’s wheels over stone, not Bianca.  Slowly, the fear began to abate.

“It’s a long journey to Skyhold,” she said, dry voice cracking.

“Good thing we aren’t going there, then.  We’re taking you to the Keep,” Varric said. “Now hold still.”

She felt his hand move to her face, pushing her head back so he could trickle water into her mouth. The unfamiliar sensation caught in her throat. It had been so long since she last saw to simple needs.

“How-how long was I gone?” she finally asked between coughs.

“There will be time for questions after I’ve published my next novel.”  Varric ran his fingers through her hair again as he spoke.  It was a gentle motion to try to comfort her.

“Varric,” Hawke said with as much indignation she could muster, trying to grab his hand.  The energy she had found in her panic was waning and waves of indescribable tired washed over her.

“Alright, Chuckles, you win,” he said, and he once again tried to give her water.

The water was soothing to her cracked lips but it turned her stomach. She almost didn’t realize he hadn’t answered her question as she fought waves of nausea back down.  “A long time, then.”

“Long enough,” Varric agreed.

Too long, Hawke realized. She tried to get up to leave again – her heart pounding. She could feel his hands on her chest, warm against her cold skin.  “I need-“ she began, but she couldn’t voice it.

“-to go,” Varric finished. “I know. But right now you need to get to the healers. As many as I can find.”

“The Tevinter…” she started. What was his name? Dorian? “I’m fine.”

“Ah, yes, the great mighty Hawke. In the Fade for a year and perfectly fine two hours later. I’d believe that if it weren’t for the fact that I’ve got a hand on your breast and you haven’t slapped me yet.”

“Maybe I’m just-“ but the witty repartee fell flat as the rest of his words registered. “ _ Did you say a year? _ ”

“A turn of phrase,” Varric said reassuringly. “It was closer to six months.”

She wanted to panic. She could feel it trying to rise in her throat – but the nonchalance with which he said it comforted her.  It didn’t matter that she couldn’t feel his hand if it was indeed where he had said.  It didn’t matter that she could feel agony at the corner of her mind slowly seeping in.  It didn’t matter that six months of her life were gone.  She was safe now.

“That’s not so bad, then,” she said, the warmth and strength in his voice making it difficult to concentrate.  She felt herself drifting off. Not into unconsciousness, but into sleep.

_ If dwarves don’t dream, then their sleep must be as cold as stone. _

She wanted that. She’d spent enough time in the Fade and never wanted to see that ever shifting monstrosity again. Stone. Maybe she could dream of stone.


	3. A Walk in the Park

She was already running before she even realized she was awake. The panic was thick enough to drown a man. Someone was speaking fast and loud - screaming at her in a language she didn’t understand. Her staff was in her hand and she could smell smoke. Something was on fire.

Her feet carried her away, as they had so many times before. Fleeing was second nature now; if she stopped, she would die. The spiderlings would be upon her at any moment and she was in too much pain to fight them. She had to survive, had to escape.

_ Down through the darkness, twisting, turning, slamming into things she couldn’t see _ \-- why was the Fade so big, so stony, with so many walls? Kirkwall was like this, too, with its big houses and tiny doors, so hard to navigate, so hard to  _ run _ .

“Interesting place for a walk,” she heard Varric’s steady voice break through the fog.

All at once she remembered she was in the Keep. Why had she been running?  Everything was right again.  Slowly, she started to turn towards him.

“Hold on, Hawke…don’t take a step. I’ll come to you,” he said.

She heard his heavy footsteps approaching, and for a moment she thought she could see the dwarf’s bemused smile through the shadows in her vision.

“Is this an excuse to touch my chest again?” she asked wearily.

“No, I had my fill of that earlier today,” he said. “Now I just want to touch your dead hand a while longer.”

“I’ll be glad to be rid of it,” she said, shivering. The air felt too cold for her to still be wearing her armor. “It was always making things too easy. …Am I in my smallclothes?”

“No,” Varric said. “And they aren’t chopping your hand off. Or at least I don’t think they are. Although I gotta tell you Hawke, us being friends and all, it looks  _ bad _ . What do you say we go back to the healers? They’ve probably put the fires out by now.”

“They were screaming,” Hawke said stubbornly. “It was very unprofessional. Haven’t they ever seen a mage lose her mind before?”

“Well you  _ are  _ the Bride of the Maker. It’s very intimidating.”

She could feel him guiding her straight back and the breeze on her face vanished. She must have been near the edge of the wall – no wonder he had come to her. Fleeing blind in the Fade would have been simple, but this unchanging world and its gravity and stone had different threats.

“Bride? Ugh. I take it back. Too much commitment,” she said.

The fact that she had made it so far into the tower without falling off something or running into someone said a lot for her senses. The Keep near Adamant hadn’t exactly been built with the disabled in mind.

“He’d probably not like a blind wife anyway. Couldn’t say ‘look how big it is’ to anything.”

“Blind? Don’t be ridiculous. You should know I’m letting you lead me around so you can feel useful,” Hawke said.

“That’s funny, because last I saw you, you didn’t normally run into every wall between you and your destination, although it might be an improvement. It made you easy to keep up with.”

She could feel his hand on the small of her back, directing her around something.

“Habit I picked up in the Fade.  Anyway, I had to give you and your stumpy legs an advantage,” Hawke said.

This was real. This  _ felt  _ real. No panic, just the ease of words that the two of them had and a light wind against her face.

“Hey, you’re practically a foot taller than me,” Varric said. “If you pass out, I’ll have to drag you back – and they just got most of your skin put back together.”

Hawke realized she was leaning heavily on him, her hip pressed into his ribs. His muscles didn’t even strain from the effort of holding her up. Briefly she wondered if she had lost weight in the Fade or if the not needing to eat held her in stasis. What had Varric described her as? A pudding covered in gravy?

“I’d love to hear the story you spin to explain to the guards here why you’re dragging the Champion of Kirkwall through the keep,” she said, but she tried to regain an upright stance. “Is it too early to tell people I drank too much?”

“Sunset was nearly three hours ago,” Varric said.

“That’s impossible,” Hawke said, raising an eyebrow, “because I’m sober.”

“You’ve got enough problems to worry about without adding poor decision-making into the mix,” came the reply. “I’ve got a bottle set aside for you, but you can’t have it until I know you won’t be wasting it.”

“I can decide for myself what my body can take,” Hawke said. She paused. “Did that sound as dirty to you as it did to me?”

“It probably sounded like words in your head, too” Varric responded. “Out loud it was more like a pitiful mewling. Your bardic dreams might have to wait until  _ after  _ the healers have seen to you.”

“You keep mentioning these healers,” Hawke said. “If you like them so much, why don’t you go spend time with them and I can go play diamondback with myself in your tent.”

“Hawke, you’re still bleeding. Inside and out...You’ve got more injuries than I’ve seen on a living person. So, no,” he replied, his voice dropping to a more sincere tone. “You’re going back to the healers and you’re going to stay there until at least sundown tomorrow if I have to drag you there and sit on your chest.”

“You really know how to make a girl feel special,” Hawke said. “Alright. We’ll do it your way, then. Not that I have much choice, I suppose.  I wouldn’t be able to see my cards.”

“You’re just lucky to have me taking care of you,” Varric said with a chuckle. “The Inquisitor is still hero-ing her way around the Western Approach. I think she’s been trying to find a High Dragon to kill.  Once she finds it, she might ask for Bianca’s help.”

“I’ll be amused to hear what she has to say when she stops by,” Hawke said. “I did sacrifice myself to save her, after all.”

“And yet you seem to be alive,” Varric said.

She could hear him opening a door. Finally back, then. The walk had seemed longer than she would have expected; she’d made it quite a way through the Keep.  She put a hand on his shoulder, or at least what she thought was his shoulder.  It felt a bit more like his upper arm.  She forced a smile.  “Someone had to put a stop to all the tragedies you write.”


	4. To Be Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An innocent bath. Nothing going on here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is getting a great deal longer in my head than I would have expected (I was originally only going to have around five parts to fill the prompt) and in so doing it is also getting darker. I may have to break this story up into a "series" to allow people that aren't looking for such darkness to enjoy just the slightly fluffier parts.
> 
> Also, as this is my first AO3 story, feel free to suggest better tags.

There was a long fight between Hawke and the healers that finally concluded with Varric confiscating Hawke’s staff and a Templar being stationed outside the door.  She slept then, too tired to fight the Chantry’s dark presence, with consciousness and unconsciousness washing together in fits of dreams and screams.  When she finally declared she could not rest longer, Varric informed her that she had only been on the cot for around two hours.

“Be honest now, Varric,” she said, as it dawned on her she had no way of knowing whether he was lying.  “It’s been a few days now, hasn’t it, and you’re just pretending it hasn’t.”

She felt his hand touch her cheek.  It was a small gesture, only meant to tell her where he was, but she felt her breathing steady.  Had she been breathing heavily before?  Her body was impossible to keep track of.

“As fond as I am of stories, Hawke, no,” he replied, voice softening.  “That place did something to you.  You can’t expect everything to work right immediately.”

“If I’m lucky, I’ll need to use the privy any time now,” Hawke said cheerfully, trying to drag herself into a sitting position.

No fuss was made, but she felt Varric quietly press another pillow beneath her to support her back.

“Not at the rate you’ve been eating and drinking,” he said with a small chuckle.  “You’ve only kept down a little water.”

“I didn’t have to eat or drink in the Fade,” she replied.  “For that I am incredibly grateful.  I can’t imagine eating demons would be good for my health.”

The smooth polish of a wooden cup was pressed into her unbroken hand.

“Here,” he said, his rough voice reassuring.  “I won’t have it be said that Varric Tethras forgot to offer a beautiful woman a drink.”

She shakily raised it to her lips and eventually managed to get some of it into her mouth.  It was cool and felt refreshing to her throat, as well as her bruised chest and lap.

“Or a bath, apparently,” she added.

“Maker’s breath, Hawke.  Where would you be without me?”

“Dry, I think,” came the fast response.  She heard water splashing nearby, and she put her hand out towards him.  “I’m not sure I want to wear more right now.”

“I don’t actually think I asked what you wanted,” Varric said cheekily.  “Hawke, you need a bath.  There are only so many times I can describe the Champion of Kirkwall looking like a common beggar covered head to toe in her own blood and Fade entrails.”

“Thank you for that image, Varric,” Hawke said.

“-stinking to the high heavens of combat and desperation –“ he continued.

“Thank you,” Hawke said, louder.

“-left nipple and navel poking out through tears in her clothing –“

“Is this your newest chapter of Swords and Shields or are you still describing me?”

“Well, I can’t actually see your nipple yet, but if you’ll allow me to help you out here I’ll be able to describe them properly for your guest appearance,” he said nonchalantly.  “We’re alone for now.”

“Varric…” Hawke murmured, voice taking on a more serious tone.  “You don’t need to do this.”

“I want to, Hawke,” he said, voice also dropping its teasing tone.  “I don’t like feeling useless.”

She understood that it wasn’t meant to sound flirty or lewd; he genuinely wanted to help.  As easily as sarcasm slipped from her lips, she couldn’t find a way to deflect this.

“I can bathe myself,” she said resolutely.  “I am not a child.”

“Never suggested you were.  But your right hand is mainly decorative at this point, you’re still in pain – even if you won’t admit it – and the Fade has weakened you more than you realize.  If you’re genuinely uncomfortable, feel free to stop me, but otherwise just shut up and enjoy it.”

He spoke slowly, certain in his reasoning.  And as much as Hawke hated to admit it, he wasn’t wrong.  As far as she managed to get while in a blind panic, simple tasks seemed beyond her -- so when she felt the soft cotton cloth first pressed against her cheek, she simply sighed and leaned into it.

“Did I ever tell you about the time the Inquisitor managed to single-handedly ruin an alliance with the Qunari?”

“No,” Hawke said softly.  Her eyes closed as the months of Fade were wiped from her skin.  “I think I would remember such a prominent failure of the Herald of Andraste.”

“Well, it all started when Tiny sent a message to the Inquisition asking for a meeting…”

“Tiny is your absurd name for that hulking oxman that hangs out in the Herald’s Rest,” Hawke stated.

It wasn’t a question.  She remembered their nicknames – including her old nickname that he’d given away to the elf: Chuckles.  It bothered her more than it should have.  He seemed insistent on calling her Hawke – even when he gave nicknames to literally every other breathing creature on the face of the earth.

“Well, we went out to visit this ‘Iron Bull’ and his mercenary team he thoughtfully calls the Bull’s Chargers.  Turns out he’s Ben-Hassrath, which is a fancy Qunari name for a spy.”

Water ran down the back of her neck and she leaned forward as he followed it with small movements of the wet cloth.  It stung as it drifted over unseen scars, bruises, and invisible cracks in her psyche.  She flinched and tried to disguise it with a sigh.

“The Inquisitor does seem like the kind of gullible hero that would take on a Qunari spy as a companion.”

“Oh, it gets better,” Varric said.  “Let me tell you about the Chargers.”

He made no indication that he noticed her reaction, but she felt the pressure he put on the cloth soften.  The man was infuriatingly perceptive.  She waited quietly for him to carefully cut the remains of her clothing from her shaking body.  Neither of them spoke of it; it felt typical – like he routinely saw her naked form every day of his life.  The utter lack of interest he seemed to show was…refreshing.  Almost as much so as the water itself.  She hadn’t realized how utterly filthy she felt until its removal – and now it couldn’t happen fast enough.  She wanted – needed – to be clean.  He continued his story after pausing to rinse the rag.  The sound of the water ringing from it reawakened her thirst.

“His second in command is called Krem.  He’s a Tevinter fighter and an absolute terror on the battlefield.  Not surprising why Bull picked him,” he explained.

The cooling liquid trailed down her good arm and she held it out towards him so he access it easier.

“Is there any more water to drink?” she interrupted as he began to tell her about the other humans, Grim and Stitches.

“Hawke, you know me better than that,” he said, and he refilled her cup.

She drank deep, barely hearing his description of the team’s dwarf sapper.  By the time he was describing the elves, he had reached her breastbone and she wasn’t listening at all.  It hurt.  The pain in her bones reverberated through her whole body, but it was nothing compared to the pounding in her heart as he brought the cloth lower.  His hesitation was tangible, his fear thick like a blanket.  It only served to intensify the burn of the cotton against past wounds seen and unseen.  Only the shell had healed; the rest of the pain was locked beneath -- in the Fade, in the Nightmare – and Maker  _ it felt like she was dying. _

But she couldn’t die – couldn’t leave a stranger to look after Varric.   _  The Inquisitor wouldn’t understand how good a man he was.  _ _ A stranger wouldn’t understand the way he cared for his spies and worried for the wellbeing of others.  A stranger might toss him aside the next time a sacrifice needed to be made.  He would die, just as her family had.  Their faces appeared in her mind.  Her mother, her sister, her brother, her father.  Faces cold and lifeless with eyes stuck open in fear – _

“Hawke,” she heard Varric say, bringing her back from the Fade.  “You don’t get to give up on me yet…”  His hands rested on the sides of her face, thumbs slowly stroking her cheeks.  “That’s it.  Deep breaths.”

“What…” she asked in confusion.

“You turned off for a moment,” he said, pulling the blankets up around her and rubbing her shoulders.  “I was afraid I might have to call the healer, which would mean involving the Templar and … that seemed like the wrong move.”

“I’m sure I just got caught up in your excellent bathing skills,” she said jokingly.  She felt around for the cup she had been sure she was holding, but found Varric’s knee instead.  “Are you…straddling me?”

He abruptly pulled her head forward against his chest in a strong hug and said nothing for a few moments.

“So, Tiny had been sending reports of all this Breach insanity back to the Qunari…”

She heard his voice rumbling in his chest, alongside his quickly beating heart.

“Varric,” Hawke interrupted, confused by the odd display.  “What are you doing?”

He sighed and stopped his story.

“Maker’s breath, Hawke, I’ve been wanting to do this since you came back, and then you almost died again.  So you’re going to listen to my story and I’m going to hold you a little longer to make sure you’re real.”

“Dwarves don’t dream,” Hawke reminded him.  “But if this  _ was  _ a dream, you can be sure I would never have made it out of the Fade.  Your dreams would end just like your stories: with the hero’s lifeless body clutched by his tearful lover.”

“You’re right, Hawke.  Perhaps dreaming isn’t for me.”

“Finish your story,” Hawke said from where she was still pinned against him.

He was silent a little longer before he finally began to speak.

“The Qunari, like any sane people, began to worry about the future it might bring, so they sent a dreadnought up to help deal with the Venatori threat.  Bull and the Chargers were providing support.”  He let Hawke go and his weight disappeared from the cot. “You don’t want to hear this story.  I’m sorry.”

“You can’t possibly quit now…I’m much too invested,” Hawke said, picking the rag out of her lap and handing it to him.  “The Chargers were providing support for a dreadnought and you were just about to wash my breasts.”

She smiled at him daringly.

“I’m not sure you can handle me a second time,” he said, but his joke sounded oddly uncertain.  He pressed the rag into her hands.  “How about I just watch.  I’m winking seductively right now, if you can picture that.”

“I’m imagining it looks like an insect flew into your eye,” Hawke said.  “It’s far from seductive.”

She wiped the grime from her chest and tried not to think about how absurd the whole situation was.  She had resigned herself to dying in the Fade; surviving was never a consideration.  But she had.  She had lived through the Fade, through the Nightmare, through the pain, through the fear and the hopelessness and the despair and the doubt and now she was trying to hold all the little pieces of herself together.  While bathing.  In front of  _ Varric _ .


	5. Why Are There No Healers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this chapter. I enjoyed writing it, but I also recognize it may be rubbish to post. I can't come up with anything better though, so if you have any critiques please feel free to help me out. Also, the formatting is driving me crazy. It just looks weird to me.

_ It's not a good story unless the hero dies. _

Varric lay at her feet, skin charred, clothing smoking.  She knelt down, trying to shake him awake, to beg him to run before the spiders caught up to them -- but she could hear the Nightmare calling to her already.

_ You never escaped, “Champion”.  You brought me out of the Fade and into reality with your fears and your panicked lack of control.  I have no need of my pets to do my bidding.  The magic locked within you will destroy everyone.  I feast on the fear of those you touch.  Each one worries if today will be the day you turn into an abomination.  That day is coming, little mage.  The madness will take you.  Everyone around you will die. _

“Hawke...don’t listen to him.  Whatever he is saying, just ignore it.  He’s got no power over you here.”

Hawke looked anxiously towards Varric’s body, but he still lay face down in the murky green water of the Fade.

“Varric?” she whispered, uncertain of what she had heard.

“Nothing I’m doing seems to work -”

The words were not to her.  He was not here…  She was dreaming, but the Fade stayed coiled around her like a net.  The Nightmare’s words were too sharp, had bitten too deep.

_ Everyone around you will die. _

No, she needed to stay here where she couldn’t hurt anyone.

“Damn you, Hawke!  You can’t die on me yet!”  His voice was pained, insistent.  It carried her through her mind and back to the darkness of reality.  Back to the agony of wounds and hunger.

“Let me go!” she screamed, struggling to escape her own broken bones cracked around her like irons.  She needed to go -- but Varric’s laugh of relief made her quickly hesitant.  She had wanted to protect him.  He had to be frightened, but he sounded so genuine.  So glad for her to be back.

“Hawke,” he said, strong palms pressing against her shoulders.  “Stay.”

She felt too weak to shake his hold.  “If I must,” she murmured, eyes closing again.

“Have the hacks we keep around this place done nothing at all?  Not even leeches?”

Dorian.  The Tevinter who had initially been trying to heal her had returned.

“There was a problem,” Varric explained, “and the healers got a little too attached to a bad idea.”

“The Rite of Tranquility?” Dorian translated.  “On Hawke?  The Inquisitor would never allow it.”

“I’m not sure the Inquisitor will have much say if the Templar gets too antsy.  There’s been a lot of screaming.  He’s pretty shaken up.”

“Dreams,” Hawke said wearily as she regained her mind.  “Only dreams.”

“Yes, but it took a long time to wake you,” Varric said.  “And you have set the room on fire once already.”

“Well, I am well-rested and have replenished my supply of lyrium potions, so let’s see if we can get you well enough to keep your forehead clear of ugly tattoos, then, shall we?”  Wood scraped the floor as he pulled a chair over.

“Why wake me for this?” Hawke asked touching her face with a cold hand.

“As I said,” Varric replied.  “Lots of screaming.”

“Varric,” Dorian interrupted.  “You may wish to find obligations elsewhere if this healing session goes anything like the last.”

“I thought you were supposed to be good at this.”

“I am a Tevinter Altus, and quite an adept mage, but I only began studying the healing magic at the Inquisitor's request.  Her screaming and your worrying are both incredibly distracting.”

Varric was worried?  Hawke hadn’t heard it in his voice, but it would explain the strange emotion she felt around him.

“Perhaps if you were better she wouldn’t  _ be _ screaming.”

“I’m blind, not deaf, you know,” Hawke threw in.

“Right you are,” Dorian said.  “The Dwarf can stay if you promise not to start in on each other the moment I’m done reorganizing your entrails.”

Hawke started to question what he meant, but she could feel the first of his magic wrapping around her.  The first wave of healing was not a comforting blanket as Ander’s often had been...it was the Nightmare’s tendrils crushing her.  It was every moment since she had entered the Fade with the Inquisitor.  It was -  

“Stop,” she gasped, trying to sit up, but her muscles wouldn’t respond.

“Hawke?”  She felt Varric’s strong hands against her shoulders, stilling her jerky movements again.  “Not doing so well?”

“Stop!” she repeated, more urgently. Agony was rising through her body, migrating from wound to wound where none had been before.  She could  _ feel  _ \-- everything she had been blocking choked to the surface and suddenly she was on fire.

Her consciousness was jumpy, then.  Varric and Dorian both spoke, muffled, through a haze of screaming nerves and bloodied memories.  At one point she realized she was thrashing, unable to control her muscles, but Varric’s weight was all around her, trying to keep her still.

_ “ _ Why is it hurting her?” he was asking, but Dorian’s answer was muffled.

_ “Please,”  _ Hawke begged, eyes wet with desperation.

“It will pass,” Dorian’s voice assured her, suddenly crystal clear and sharp enough to bore through her skull.

It didn’t.  Seconds drifted to minutes, minutes drifted to hours, hours drifted to days, and it all spun back around to seconds.  A half year of pain moved through her and she finally went limp from fighting it.  She twitched uncontrollably until the waves finally broke and left her washed up on the shore like driftwood.

Someone was stroking her hair.  Varric was on top of her, again, heavy as a full-grown man but the proportions could only be that of a dwarf.

“You’re really making it difficult to retain confidence in my healing abilities,” Dorian said.

“What was that?” she asked, voice strained from crying for mercy.

“That,” Dorian said, “was a simple healing spell.  I was afraid of this.”

“Ah, yes, a Tevinter is much too powerful for the likes of a Ferelden,” Hawke said sarcastically.

“I might be hurt by such a remark but you’re much too pitiful to be angry with,” he said.  “I will choose to let your insults pass just this one time.”

“You gave us a scare, there, waffles,” Varric said.  “Thought that place had you again.”

“I had a few theories when I first attempted to restore you, based solely on the intensity of your caterwauling,” the Tevinter said.  “It seems in healing your ailments, I am restoring your nervous system as well.”

“Unfortunately I traded mine in on the road here,” Hawke said evenly.

“Joke if you must, but your mockery is not entirely unfounded.  Your nerves have shut off or died from the pain.  It may be the only reason you still live.”

“Then I’d better not heal,” Hawke joked.

Dorian ignored her, and continued.

“I’m going to leave your friend here with my stash and as many potions as the healers will spare.  They should be weak enough to keep the healing at a level you can tolerate.”

“That’s it?” Varric asked.  “Just ‘take two and try not to die’?”

“I will speak with the Inquisition's other mages on your behalf, but you may be on rather winding road to recovery.  Your continued survival is puzzling enough...I am not certain my continued interference will benefit you.”

“Thanks anyways,” Hawke said will a bitter laugh.

“I’m sure you would do the same for me if you possessed even a tenth of my magical ability,” he said, chair scraping backwards.  “Try not to turn into an abomination.  I’d hate to think of Varric fighting your weakened, skeletal form off with nothing but a crossbow and undying infatuation.”

“Hey,” Varric protested.  “Infatuation?  I’m fully-grown.  Now I lust.”

“Wouldn’t that make the Inquisitor feel like a fool,” Hawke said.  “Letting me kill you after I told her to take care of you.”

“Ah, yes.  The Inquisitor sent a raven with her regrets for the continued delay.”

“Far be it from me to get in the way of a dragon hunt,” Hawke said, trying to push Varric off her.

“Not yet, Hawke.  I know you can’t feel it, but you’re still shaking.”

“Always the same, Varric.  Any reason to stay on top of me,” Hawke sighed.

“You minx,” Varric scolded.

“Varric…” Dorian’s voice drifted from the door.  “I’ve sent the Templar away to relax for a while.  It may be in her interest to try a few potions in his absence.”

“No thank you,” Hawke said, shaking her head.

But she could already hear the pull of the cork to a vial.

“‘The Champion of Kirkwall looked on in fear as the dwarf offered her a harmless healing potion,’” Varric said in his storytelling voice.

“‘And then the dwarf gave her the potion and she died, leaving the world sad and empty in her absence.’”

“Hey, who is the storyteller here?  Sparkler seemed confident and you  _ have  _ been bleeding since you got here.  Come on.  I’ll be here the whole time.”

“I know,” Hawke said snarkily.  “I can feel your potion vial against my chest.”

“Good to know,” Varric said.  “Bottoms up.”

For a moment, all seemed well, but as some of the pain along her skin dissipated, she felt the rest rise from the well trapped within her mind.  The fear demons, the scavengers, the falls, the fights, the desperate fleeing, the raw and unbridled and utter hysteria she had felt every second she pushed her muscles beyond what they could ever take.  Six months she was lost in the Fade.  Six months of fighting without need to sleep or eat.  No breaks, no rest, and no hope as she circled through, lost and alone.  Panic seized at her chest and she found herself begging to any god that might listen for just a moment longer of solace.

“You’re alright.  You’re fine.  It’s all going to be fine.”  Varric’s voice brought her back from the desperately repeated prayers.  His fingers were splayed across her chest, weight enough to crush her against the cot, but his words were as light as feathers.  He repeated his mantra over and over in a low voice until Hawke had returned to her senses enough to realize she was crying.

“So much for Sparkler’s theory,” she said.

“You aren’t dead,” Varric pointed out.  “And you didn’t stop breathing this time, so that’s an improvement.”

“I don’t want to do that again,” Hawke said in exhaustion.

“I didn’t ask what you wanted,” Varric said with a low laugh.  He wiped her tears away with his thumb.  “You may feel fine, but you can’t see the way you look.  You’re wasting away, Hawke.  Without more, you’ll probably get that sacrifice you wanted.  Side effects be damned.”

“It’s not a good story unless the hero dies,” Hawke reminded him.

“No,” Varric scolded.  “I have a specific finale planned for this hero and it doesn’t involve dying on a cot.”

“Does she ride off into the sunset with a gorgeous beau?” Hawke asked, trying to still her racing heart.

Varric was still on top of her, which she found oddly comforting if a little inappropriate.  “Don’t be silly,” he said.  “You’d never love a man who could ride a horse.  Too common.”  He planted a small kiss on her forehead before easing his weight off her.  “Me and my vial will be over here if you need us.  Try to relax, although maybe don’t scream so much this time.”


	6. Blind Lead the Blind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter briefly mentions rape and bodily fluids. You have been warned.  
> WARNING FOR THOSE READING THE WARNING: No, I didn't go full dark on you. Probably.
> 
> If you are enjoying this story, please leave something you don't like about it in the comments. Be as mean as you like...I just want to learn.
> 
> PS: I am loving some of your usernames.

Sleep and wakefulness had remained a breath apart since Hawke had exited the Fade, so she was not surprised when she woke in the middle of - presumably - her own ice storm.  She could feel the cold 

“Varric?” she whispered, feeling around for him.

There was no reply.

She sat bolt upright, calling again for her friend.  “VARRIC!”  

Dwarves were naturally resistant but she  _ had  _ managed to kill the Qunari Arishok with some of her bones in tact.  It was possible…

No.   _ No,  _ he had to have fled when the lightning began, or the Inquisitor had called him away.  There was no way she had killed him.

Except the Nightmare’s words hung in her head.

_ Only a matter of time… _

She dragged herself off the cot, falling to the floor with a thump.  Her legs weren’t cooperating with her movements.  As she shook them back to life, she put a hand out to locate the side table to get to her feet.  Instead of the table, though, her hand connected with something sharp and metallic.

At first touch she thought it was a sword.  It had drawn blood easily enough, but as she moved her fingers up the weapon she realized it was her staff.  Someone had sharpened the blade and oiled the wood.  It had to be Varric.  Varric had been caring for her staff while she slept.

“You’re spoiling me,” she whispered to the room.  The growing fears of Varric’s fate subsided a little as she held the familiar weapon.  Varric was resourceful...

“Maker preserve us...mage, what have you done?” a new voice questioned breathlessly.

She hadn’t even heard the door open.

“It was like this when I got here, I swear.”  The snark came  instinctively, but she immediately regretted it.  This had to be the templar.  “I’m looking for Varric.  He’s not...in this room, is he?”

Abruptly the snowstorm disappeared from the room and for a moment Hawke was confused.  It normally tapered off rather than ending in a single heartbeat.  The confusion dissipated as the next beat practically floored her.

The blighted templar had just tried to smite her.

Tried was the important word.  Hawke had not rested well and had very little magic left for him to harm her with.  Anger and pain mixed with confusion as she stared into the darkness and tried to figure out why the templar was attacking a blind, wounded mage in the first place.

Something warm ran down her wrist and she instinctively looked towards where it would have been.  Of course she could see only darkness, but it reminded her that she was bleeding.  Did the templar think she was using blood magic?  Was Varric’s body inches away from her?

“Can’t we talk about this?  No?”

His armor clanked closer, a steady rhythm that came with years of training.  She scrambled away from the sound, knocking the side table over in his direction in hopes of potentially slowing him up while she tried to think what to do.  She was exhausted.  A spell or two was the best she could manage, and with her broken arm she’d stand no chance against an armored foe.

This was worse than the Fade.  She’d gotten  _ good  _ at killing the demons there.  Here she faced a foe that understood her and was given no purpose but to kill her kind.  Still...better than being made Tranquil in her sleep.

She roughly knew where the door was in space.  If she could hold him off and not find the body of her friend murdered somewhere in the room, she might stand a chance of fleeing far enough to find someone who would convince him she wasn’t a blood mage or an abomination or a weakened liability that needed a mercy killing.

She didn’t have any way to try to restrain him with telekinetic force without knowing his exact position so that left ice.  Her staff moved in an arc, channeling a blanket of cold towards the templar’s footsteps.   _ Void take him.   _ She dragged herself in a half crawl, half run towards the door, only to find herself knocked back down by the flat of a shield.  All the air went out of her lungs and the surge of pain up her chest told her that he had further marred her damaged ribs.

_ The templars have found Anders, mage.  I have seen him dying ever so slowly.  He suffers because you did not stop him from making such a grave mistake. _

The Nightmare’s voice was whisper-quiet and she turned to find the source of it, only to realize that she could see.  She could see clearly, and realized she was once again in the Fade.

She could see the blade descending towards her and only barely managed to redirect it into the ground.  What was a templar even doing in the Fade?   _ Why was any of this happening? _

With no time to sort any of this out, she crawled backwards, wiping the blood from her hand onto her tunic so she could grip her staff better.  Pain was rising up her legs and she was breathing heavily.  Exhaustion hadn’t been a factor in the Fade before.  Something was not right.

“You wouldn’t consider dying, would you?” she asked through gritted teeth.

The templar didn’t speak, only pulled his blade from the ground and followed after her.

This was pointless.  If the fear demons had taken the form of templars, their armor couldn’t possibly be any worse than the spider’s carapaces.  She wedged the staff under her arm like a lance and tried to land a blow in his chest.

It sloughed off his armor and he knocked it away with his shield.  In the same motion, his blade swung down towards her.  At best, she was able to roll away so the flat of the blade landed against her side rather than cutting through her chest, but the resulting needles of pain in her lungs left her gasping on the ground.

A pillar of flame shot from the ground towards him, a gesture she didn’t completely remember making, but the next motion he made was to smite her again.  She almost blacked out from the shock of it.

Through barely open eyes, she could see Varric’s short form suddenly appear behind the templar, a clay pot in one hand and a bowl in the other.  His face was not visible.  “Well...shit.”

_ ~ _

_ Metal rattling. _

_ Clay breaking against stone. _

_ Electricity crackling. _

_ Was someone singing the Chant…? _

She couldn’t hear past the ringing and the lightning.  The floor beneath her was wet and smelled acrid.  ...How had she gotten on the floor?  Nothing about the moment Hawke awoke made sense.  She was holding something wooden; the shape felt like the leg of a chair.

Steel cut into her forearm, but there was no steel in the Fade -- so she was not in the Fade.  Real life?  Was she being attacked?

She lashed out in the most likely direction, which was directly in front of her, and felt the wood connect with metal.  Armor.

“Stop,” she said, but she could not hear her own voice over the roar in her head.

Something warm was dripping from her eyes onto her thighs.  Varric would be disappointed if it was blood.  He had spent so much time trying to help her clean up.  She was so tired now...if she could only sleep a while longer, surely things would make more sense.

“Hawke,” a voice said in relief.  It was as clear as a bell.  A lighthouse.  She could see the storm around her and fought her way to shore.  Off in the distance thunder groaned.  “She’s not an abomination, you son-of-a-bitch.”

“She used blood magic.”

“Because of her hand, Chantry-boy?  She’s been covered in far more blood than this since we brought her in here.”

“The Templar,” she said in realization and could feel her body .  She was certain she could see Varric’s shadow standing in front of her.  “What…?”

“Stay still, Hawke.”  Varric’s hands wrapped around her arm, putting pressure on the sword’s bite.  They were cool to the touch.  “Andraste’s ass, Hawke, you’re burning up.”

“She’s dangerous, Master Tethras.”

“She certainly is,” Varric said, and Hawke could tell from the direction of his voice that he was facing her now.  “To Carta, Coterie, demons, thugs, thieves, murderers, blood mages, darkspawn, ancient magisters, and Qunari invaders.  I’m none of those, so how about you  _ leave her to me _ .”

For a moment, there was no sound, and then metal clanked out of earshot.  The templar’s voice drifted back.  “I will send a raven to Commander Cullen.”

“You do that, you piece of -”

“Thank you,” Hawke interrupted, barely able to catch her breath.  She was trembling all over.

“Well...”  He trailed off.  She could practically feel him appraising her.  His breath was labored, but she didn’t remember him fighting.

“I’m fine,” Hawke assured him.  She wanted nothing more than to put her arms around him but he forcibly held her in place.

“Not now, Hawke.  You’re turning grey and I’m not a healer.  I need to get someone.”

“No,” she said, although her words sounded slurred in her ringing ears.  “Stay with me.”

“Maker’s breath, Hawke, I want to hold you so much that it hurts, but if I don’t do something,  _ there’s a good chance you’ll die. _ ”

His presence vanished, cool hands and reassuring voice both gone in an instant.

_ Don’t go, Varric.  I l- _

~

Before she realized what was happening, time had passed and a sour taste was left on her tongue.  Her head was in Varric’s lap and his hands were sweating.

“Is that a potion in your pocket?” she weakly asked, forcing a cheeky grin.

Varric made a frustrated sound.  “Hawke…”

She wanted him to laugh... _ needed _ him to laugh, so she mustered enough strength to say, “Varric, you know I exclusively keep you around for your potion and your tongue.  You’ve stopped telling me stories, so I know I’ve had a vial in my mouth.”

“No need to get excited about my potions.”  He sounded tired.  “Afraid the bar’s closed now that you’re close to the right color.”

“You mean I have to heal the old fashioned way?” Hawke asked in mock confusion.  “That doesn’t sound right.  Isn’t there  _ magic _ ?”

“Sure.  Magic that leaves your best friend begging you for mercy.”

A few things that should have been obvious to Hawke finally clicked into place.  Her pain had become normal to her, but Varric had only been around for the worst parts.  She would have cracked hours ago if put into his position.   _ This was probably killing him.   _ And yet...somehow he was showing remarkable restraint, aside from the slight desperation in his voice just after the templar attack.

_ The templar. _

“Varric,” she said, reaching her arms up towards where his face would probably be.  One of his cheeks was wet, but he pressed her hand against it.  She could feel his lips on the skin of her palm.  “I thought I’d killed you.”

“Not even on your best day,” Varric said.  “Especially not after watching that fight with…”  His voice faded and he sighed, letting go of her hand.  “Hawke, there’s something I need to ask you.”

“I didn’t start it!” she insisted.

“Hawke, if he did something...that potion I gave you...”  He seemed to be struggling to find words.

“Did something,” she repeated, not fully understanding what he meant.  He had done something.  He’d tried to kill her, but Varric was aware of that.

“I can find someone else, if you’d be more…”  He sighed.

“Varric, that makes twice you were at a loss for words since I’ve known you,” Hawke said.  “If I didn’t know any better-”

“Be serious for one second, would you, Hawke?  I’m trying to ask if-” he hesitated, but she could feel him draw a resolute breath.  “If I remove your smallclothes, what will I find?”

What an odd question.  Did he think she was a spirit from the Fade that had only taken Hawke’s form?  That...made sense, actually.  Just like the Divine they had met.  Just like Cole.  She put a hand between her legs quickly to check, knowing full well he could see.  Everything seemed to be where she’d left it.  Would a spirit taking on the form of a human have the right parts?  Did Cole?

“A dwarven beard,” Hawke joked to deflect some of his concern.  “A little man in a boat.  A velvet hat.  A long tunnel.  I don’t know...what will you be looking for when you hypothetically take my smalls?”

“Hawke…”

“Not a penis, that’s for sure,” she said with a quiet giggle.  “Here...touch.”

“Hawke.”  His voice was unamused.

“Well you can look if you don’t believe me,” she said.  “But I’m telling you-”

“I found you curled up in a puddle of your own piss trying to fend off a member of a sect of mage-hating lunatics with a table leg.  With the stories Anders has told me, what am I supposed to think?”

Oh.   _ OH. _

Well, that certainly explained the smell.  Her cheeks flushed red and she couldn’t think of anything witty to say.  She sat up quickly, a movement that made her feel sick all over again.

“No,” she said, only she wasn’t sure.  She hadn’t heard him enter...perhaps he had been on the way out.  Perhaps none of it had been real before waking up on the floor.  There was really no way to tell with the way her mind was holding onto information.  “I don’t think so.  Probably not?”  He had still been wearing armor when she first became aware of his presence.  It was possible he had donned it in a hurry but seemed...unlikely.  That would have to do.  “Can’t we move?  Maybe to another keep where nobody knows who I am.”

He helped her the rest of the way up and onto a nearby chair.  “Shit, Hawke, I need to get you out of this keep before it kills you.”  Some light had come back to his voice but he still sounded...sad?  Worried?  Angry?

“Tongues would wag when we mysteriously vanished.”

“I could leave a note that says you fell wildly in love with a serving girl and eloped.  Naturally, I came along to record the event for posterity.  The Seeker would believe it.  She’s a romantic at heart.”

“As long as we stop by the kitchens on the way out, I don’t care what you tell people.”

“There’s some broth on the floor by the door,” Varric said.  His voice came from across the room.  “You can lick that up if you want.  Just watch out for the clay shards.”

It was sweet that he had thought to bring her food unasked, even if it had nearly caused a few people great discomfort.

“I dreamed about your clumsy failing.  Or imagined it.  I’m really not sure what happened, exactly.  I was here fighting the templar, then I was in the Fade fighting the templar, then I was here again and none of it coincided to anything.”  She heard the door to the room close and for a second her heart sped.  “Varric?”

“Still here, Hawke.  Just bribing someone to bring us a few things.”  His steps moved back to where she sat, worrying the corner of the chair with her nails.  “As for the confusing parts of the story, I think maybe I can help with that.”

“Yes, we should get our stories straight for that raven back from Commander Cullen.  The templar attacked first and I defended myself.  There was not a snowstorm there when he came in and he was very scary.  I am blind, after all.  They’ve got to take pity on me.”

“It’s about that, actually.  Tiny stopped by when you were asleep.”

“Isn’t the Inquisition hunting a dragon?  Shouldn’t he be with her?”

“Seems she was called back to Skyhold on an urgent matter.  Something to do with her clan.  He was sent to pass on her regrets for not being able to stop by.”

“I knew that elf was avoiding me.  I don’t see why...I’m very personable.”

“When you aren’t screaming.”

“Especially when I’m screaming.  It makes dwarves want to comfort me.”

Varric chuckled.  “Always trying to distract me.  That oxman, though...he had some insight into your condition.”

“Is the Inquisitor so bad at combat she’s had all her companions train as healers?”

“You know he was Ben-Hassrath.  They’re apparently very good at understanding the way the mind works.  He thinks…”  She could almost hear him reconsider his approach to the story.  “Hawke, there are some things you should know.  Should know, meaning ‘experienced but seem to have forgotten.’”

“You know how I am with details,” Hawke said.  “In one ear, ignored in my haste to upstage the people around me.”

Varric spoke slowly and carefully, into his storyteller mode.

“Tiny thinks, and I’m beginning to believe it as well, that your blindness isn’t … physical.”

The words settled in the air between them.  A challenge?  She felt a pang of sickness in her stomach as she realized he might think she was simply taking advantage of him.

“Made up, then?  That should be easy enough to remedy,” Hawke said, feigning a cheerful attitude.

“Not...quite.  You looked straight at me when I came into the room.  You were watching the templar.  Your eyes react to changes in the light and sometimes I can swear you see me.  Tiny thinks that maybe you expected you’d never see outside the Fade again, so now you’re refusing to believe what you see.”

“Wonderful,” Hawke said.  “How do I fix it, then?”

She felt Varric’s hands touch her cheeks as he directed her face towards her.

“Maybe I just have to give you a lot of something you want to look at,” he said.  She could almost hear him winking.

And then she felt something on her lips.  For a moment she couldn’t tell what it was -- but then she could taste him.  Varric was  _ kissing  _ her.

It lasted a lifetime and no time at all before he pulled away and left her tingling and annoyed.

“So I have to see you to slap you, is that it?” Hawke asked.

“Too subtle?”

She focused on the sound of his voice, scanning the room and trying to remember how to see.  She wasn’t even totally sure that her eyes were open, but she thought she could see the faint outline of the dwarf standing just off to the left of her.  She stood on wobbly legs and reached out towards him, wanting him to be right, wanting to see the stupid smirk on his stupid face --

\-- and came up empty.

“Have you considered you’re the person I don’t want to look at?” she asked innocently to hide her frustration.

“Oh, I  _ doubt  _ that.  I’m irresistable.”

“Too bad Bianca is the jealous type.  I can’t possibly hope to come between you.”

“But it’s certainly fun to watch you try,” he said.

A timid knock came at the door and Hawke turned in that direction, squinting like it would somehow help to pick his outline out of the darkness.

“Keep trying,” he said, and she realized she was facing the wrong way again.  “You can’t be wrong  _ all  _ the time.”

“Care to put money on that?”

“No way,” he said as the door creaked open.  “You’ll lose on purpose.  Here we are.  Broth, bread, fresh sheets, and your favorite - a mop!”

“Mm...terrible that I’m blind,” Hawke reminded him.  “Couldn’t possibly do any cleaning.”

“I know,” Varric said.  “It’s an absolute travesty that you won’t get to watch me make this floor weep beneath my tender touch.”

“Oh Varric,” Hawke said, trying to locate her chair - the only safe haven with bare feet and no sense of direction.  “You really know how to make a floor feel special.”


	7. The Hand that Feeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little R&R.

Varric had mended the room as best he could, although her cot was beyond repair.  She had dozed off and fallen from the chair  _ twice  _ while she waited, the first time awakening to Varric’s reassurance and the second time to his laughter.  According to his increasingly more unbelievable description, the room had a small stockpile of stacked beds in the corner, two of which were only mildly scorched, so he drug one out, broke hers up for kindling, and put fresh sheets out for her.

After blindly cleaning herself up again with only mild pointers from the dwarf about continuously missing a spot on her backside, she changed into a new linen shift and immediately crawled back into the clean cot.  A short argument that involved a coin flip declared their bet uninterrupted as it had been extenuating circumstances, and she fell back asleep.

Instead of screaming, she was surprised to be awoken by...relaxation?

“Mmmm mpmphf?” she asked, and then realized she was face down on her pillow.  Varric...was once again on top of her.

“What was that, Hawke?  I couldn’t hear you over the sound of your stomach grumbling.”  He wasn’t holding her down, he was softly moving his thumbs along her muscles.

“Varric...I know we’re friends and all, but I don’t know how you can possibly justify this seating arrangement,” she said, turning her head so she could properly form words.  

“Let’s see...you broke one of my chairs,” he said innocently.  The movements he made pushed the tension out of her body.  “The other is still drying from the blood I had to clean off it.”

“If only there was…” She was having trouble holding onto thoughts.  Her hunger momentarily forgotten, she revelled in the feeling of his hands.  “someone...corroborate…oh, Varric…Where did you learn  _ that _ ?”  She sighed.  A small amount of pain surfaced as his fingers passed over bruises.

“Soup’s getting cold,” he said, but he didn’t stop, and she didn’t ask him to.  “Figured this might be a better way to wake up.”

“This is a better way to wake up than  _ sex _ ,” Hawke murmured.

“Now, now, Hawke.  Once you’ve had it, you’ll know that’s not true.”  His hands were cautious as they moved past her ribs and further down her back.

“What makes you think I haven’t?” she asked cheekily.

“Knowing things I’m not supposed to know is a hobby of mine.”

“You’ve been keeping tabs on my personal life?”

A pause.  Perhaps longer than it needed to be.  “Among others.  Isaella’s been in a tryst or two.”

“Then you should fire your contacts.  I’ve had quite a few flames since Kirkwall,” she lied, a smile creeping across her face.

Her family had been on the run in Lothering and Kirkwall had brought its own set of challenges.  Losing Kirkwall had put her right back on the run again and falling in love takes time.  Or maybe it didn’t, but Varric’s friendship had always seemed enough.

“Oh  _ really _ ?” he asked playfully.  He sounded as if he believed her.  “I’ll need their names for my book.  Lost love is important for a protagonist.”

“Well, there’s only one that really stands out,” she said, gently lifting her torso to silently suggest he stop.  She didn’t want him to, but her hunger was outweighing the wonderful touch of the dwarf’s broad hands.

“Let me guess.  Six feet tall, strong as a bronto…”  Short as he might have been, Varric was quite heavy and his absence made Hawke feel a little lost.  “Two handed sword?  No, a staff.  Definitely a mage.  Circle born, but heroically saved some people during the rebellion.  Her name is Thea, or something short like that.  Sweetest girl ever but a marvel between the sheets.”

“Close,” Hawke said, rearranging herself into a semi-seated position on the cot.  “You got the ‘strong as a bronto’ part right.  He just isn’t a mage, female, sweet, or a marvel between the sheets.  And he’s closer to four feet tall.”

“Four feet tall,” Varric marveled.  “Hawke, you’ve fallen in love with a dwarf, haven’t you.  I should have known this would happen: I ruined you.  Is he a smith?  No, I bet he’s Legion of the Dead.  You seem to attract the tragic sort.”

She could hear the sounds of clay against wood as he poured soup into a bowl or a cup.  She hoped a cup.  Wielding a spoon in her off-hand seemed potentially dangerous.

“He’s a pain in the ass,” Hawke said.  “Is that a dwarf caste?  I bet it is.”

“Just good dwarven breeding.  What’s his name?  I bet I know him.”

Of course he didn’t recognize himself in her description.  Varric loved Bianca with his heart, soul, and mind.  And Hawke?  Well, somebody had to make the sacrifices.

“It’s impolite to kiss and tell.”

“Then I hope he was worthy of your - what was that colorful phrase you used?  ‘Velvet hat’?”

“That one came from Anders.  I don’t think he coined the phrase but who can really tell with him.”

“He seemed very interested in discussing headwear with you,” Varric agreed.  “Here.  Soup’s yours if you can take it from me.”

She sighed.

“This is punishment, isn’t it?  Just like when I had to punish Dog for peeing on the floor.”

He didn’t fall for her trick.  She listened for breathing or movement, but heard nothing.  So she tried to picture the room as it had been when the templar had fought her.  Slowly, her eyes began to focus on the Fade all around her.  In the middle of it stood Varric’s stocky form, a bowl of soup in his featureless hands.  He glowed as bright as the fire of Andraste and she had to avert her eyes to stop from going blind.

“I thought dwarves couldn’t enter the Fade,” she said, putting a hand over her eyes to hold back the headache.

“We can’t, Hawke.  Is that what you see?”

She pulled her hand away and saw darkness again.

_ Andraste’s knicker weasels.  Is it too much to ask just to see his face once more? _

“It’s … maybe not the Fade, but something like it.  You’re insultingly bright.”

“That’s the sun glow I’ve picked up tramping around in the desert with the Herald.”

He pressed the bowl into her hands.

“Didn't you offer bread?” she asked.  “I may be able to keep hold of a piece of that.”

Varric chuckled.  “Spoon too unwieldy for you?  Perhaps you’d prefer a shovel.”

“Yes,” she said.  “I’ll need one to hide your body before that templar starts asking too many questions.  I still owe you a slap.”

Too hungry to banter, she tried to drink from the bowl as if it were a cup.  Unsurprisingly, she overcompensated and wound up with the lukewarm broth dribbling down her chin.

“Hawke, your mother raised you better than this,” Varric scolded with a laugh, wiping the excess with a handkerchief.  “Here.  You’ll need this.”

He set it on her lap, and after a moment, Hawke realized he hadn’t removed his hand.

“You didn’t die on me, did you, Varric?” she asked, hungrily slurping more of the thin soup.  It tasted mostly of water with only a little stock, but it was seasoned well.  It settled her stomach.

“No.  Just…”  He sighed.  “You seem so vibrant.  Tired, but alive.  And yet...I can see the damage all over you.  A weaker man wouldn’t be this hardy.  I’m just not sure what it means.  Are you the mysterious unfeeling Champion, damaged from her time away from the world or are you the tough hero that bites back the pain of six months of pure darkness?”

“I’m the hungry Champion focused wholly on her meal,” she said.  “About that bread...”

He pulled his hand away and after a moment it was replaced with a piece of bread torn off the loaf.  She tried to grab it but as her right hand let go of the bowl, she found it was agonizingly heavy.  Swearing, she put her hand back under it.  She couldn’t hold a bowl with one hand.  That was how weak Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, the one that single-handedly took down a Qunari Arishok, had become.

“Did you get the iron bowls after breaking the first?” she joked.

“I forged it myself at the blacksmith.  You know how us dwarves are about smithing.”  She felt the bowl shift, and then a damp piece of bread was against her lips.

She couldn’t tell if she was blushing, but she tried to force a laugh as she took the bread into her mouth.

“Well...” she said, chewing, but no innuendos came to mind.

“It’s been six months since you had a proper meal,” Varric reassured her.  “This is no time to be dignified.”

“Dignified?  I’ve had more baths today than most people do in a week,” she said.  “I’d say that easily makes me a princes-”

She mmphfhed in confusion as Varric pushed a portion of broth-soaked bread into her mouth with his finger.  He was laughing.

“It’s not polite to speak with your mouth full.”

“You’re lucky I don’t hit you with this bowl,” she warned as she managed to choke it down, but she was smiling as well.  She tried to imagine the look on his face as he had done it, but no memory could do it justice.  “Next time, I’m biting you.”

“...threatened the Champion of Kirkwall.”

“And the dwarf continued to be a pain in my ass.”

“...she said suggestively.”

Another piece came to her lips, and she playfully nipped his finger as she took it from him.  This one tasted different.  Not broth, but…

She could feel him catch the bowl as her hands lost all dexterity.  Pain raced up and down them.  Had they been broken?  Bruised?  Her whole body felt like a mass of fire and fear, heartbeat now racing as if she had run for miles.  She wanted to vomit, but tried to choke the feeling down.  She wanted that alcohol now more than ever, and if she puked, Varric would deem it still too wasteful.

The son-of-a-nug had tricked her into taking a potion.  The pain of flesh-wounds faded, but the agony in her soul clawed up through her mind and out through her lips.  Pleas lost to the Nightmare faded on her tongue.  Varric.  She was out of the Fade - this pain was residual - and everything she said to it, Varric could hear.   _ I have to be strong. _

So she let the pain work its way through her, trying to keep thoughts and feelings separate and ride the memories until they once again faded into the background.

“You...shit,” she swore between heaving breaths.

Her head hung off the side of the cot with only Varric’s hands supporting her neck.

“That’s my Hawke.  Always so eloquent.”

“We were having a moment,” she spat, trying to figure out which way was up, “and you went and spoiled it.”

“I know, Hawke.  And I’m going to do it again.”

“Not if I punch you in the testicles,” she threatened, trying to find either of her arms.  One was locked under her and the other felt like it was spasming.

“I know it sucks right now, but can you do it for me?”

She thought of the pain she had just worked through - and then she imagined a pained look on his face.  Her imagination painted it much the same as Dog begging for scraps.  Fine.  No need to let him down if he was willing.

“Alright,” she agreed.  “But only because Dog is so irresistible.”

“I’m sure that made sense in your head,” he chuckled as he fed her another scrap of potion-soaked bread.

It was tingly on her skin...not unpleasant at first, but even as her strength returned, the echoes of pain followed close behind.

She retched everything she had just eaten - presumably into a bucket because Varric had redirected her as she heaved.

“Why, Varric,” she wheezed, trying to regain her composure.  “I never knew you were a sadist.”

“Me either,” he said, his voice still even.  “Another?”

“Help yourself.  I’m done for the night.” She felt dizzy enough to black out again.  And she did, briefly.

“...but if you’re scared…” he was saying dismissively as she came to again.  He hadn’t noticed her absence.

“Just give me the blighted potion,” she whispered angrily, even though she knew it would be a struggle to continue holding herself together.

This time he didn’t try to waste food; he poured straight from the vial and the intensity of it was upon her before she could even fully swallow.  She didn’t lose focus, but she could feel sweat beading on her forehead.

“Varric,” she said desperately, reaching out for him, but he had already taken her hand in his.  The other still cradled her head.

“I’m here, Hawke.”

“No more.  Please.”  She had sworn she wouldn’t beg, but she didn’t want to fall apart in front of him.  She didn’t want to let the Nightmare win.

“You can handle one more,” he assured her.  “One more and you can have a drink.”

She wanted nothing more than to share a drink with him after all that had happened.   _ One last time.   _ She didn’t fight him as the glass touched her lips, but she should have.  She should have avoided the last draught because the surge of memory it brought tipped the scales.

_ Blood ran down her hands.  Weak, useless things.  The world lay in tatters at her feet in the shape of Kirkwall and in the shape of the Hanged Man. _

She felt no more pain, but six months of nightmares pressed their way out of her eyes, tears wracking her body harder than the spasms.  Hawke wept.  She mourned for herself, for all that was lost, for all that was gained, and for all that could never be reclaimed.

She tried to cover her face but instead found herself pulled close, the fuzz of the dwarf's chest now wet with six months of tears.

“So, what…” she began, struggling to keep her voice even, "...what have you thought of the weather lately?”

“It’s been a little rainy,” he replied immediately, fingertips moving against the back of her neck.  “I think the ceiling’s sprung a leak.  That’s human craftsmanship for you.”

“Thank you."  She was unable to move and utterly exhausted, but she felt...happy?  “This was a good idea.”

“I know, Hawke.”  He stroked her hair and touched his cheek to the back of her head.  “I’m prone to have them from time to time.  Should I get that drink now?  I could definitely use one.”

“No,” Hawke murmured, putting a loose arm around his waist and securing his lap as her pillow.  “Just a few more minutes.  Please.”  

She felt empty - washed of all her feelings for just a few breaths.  The world was fresh and clear and Varric...Varric was already spinning a story...

_ You talk and the fear fades, slipping to sleep. Not always happy, but not angry. _


	8. Choose Your Own Adventure

Varric and Hawke are not canon, and fics seem to be few enough to keep my thirst alive.  Ending this story with too much darkness or too much light seemed wrong, so I could not commit to an ending.

 

So I wrote three.

 

 **I'm Getting Too Old for This Shit:** <http://archiveofourown.org/works/6164875/chapters/14960836>**  
**

For those of us that like things to turn out unambiguously well for everyone.  Hidden in the following chapter.

 

 **Fuck Or Die:** <http://archiveofourown.org/works/6290398/chapters/14414332>

For those of us that prefer a story just end in angsty porn.

 

 **All My Stories End In Tragedy:** <http://archiveofourown.org/works/6603580>

For those of us that like to come away from a story feeling totally empty.


	9. I'm Getting Too Old For This Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The unambiguously happy ending for this story.

_ Marian? _

The name echoed around her, but it was unrecognizable.  Had she known someone by that name?  She remembered a soft muzzle and sharp teeth.  Perhaps they were the source of the name.

_ Hawke! _

That sounded much more familiar.  She could faintly recall it whispering from the tears of sand-colored irises and onto pale, bruised skin.

_ HAWKE! _

The Fade swallowed her as a snake chokes down a meal, unhinging green jaws to clamp about her mind.  All around her coiled slips of spirits, fear now taking the shape of loneliness.

She had dreamed too long and too far, touching on what would never be and what had never been.

_ The Inquisitor will sacrifice him.  No more stories, no more drinks.  He will glitter no longer. _

The repeated phrase, a deep fear.  “Take care of Varric for me?”   _ What had she been thinking? _  She should have insisted Alistar stay behind.  He was a Warden, after all.  He had willingly chosen sacrifice - had even offered it, and had already accepted the calling would take him.  But she just had to play the hero...had to let the story end in tragedy.

“The Inquisitor wouldn’t sacrifice me.  She feels way too bad about leaving you behind.”

The voice was carried on still air, but it couldn’t be real.  She was in the Fade, after all, and dwarves don’t dream.

“Isn’t this getting a little old?” she asked aloud, peering into the landscape.  She expected to see the Nightmare lurking off in the distance as she always could, but it was gone.  Only the weaker scavengers were visible around her.

“I like to think I’m young at heart.  At least for now.  I’d appreciate it if you’d come with me before that changes.”

The fear demons shifted back into spiders with too many legs and too many mouths, but one immediately curled onto its back, a bolt sticking out of its abdomen.  And behind it…  Sand colored eyes and a grim look.

“Line them up for me,” he announced.  “I’ll take them down.”

“No…” she breathed.  She had wanted to see his face once more - wept for it - but...not like this.  Not as a fear demon’s shadow.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, forcing a smile, loosing another bolt into a second fear demon.  “Not who you expected?”

The demons scurried back to a safe distance, watching them.

“Dwarves don’t dream,” she said, because this temptation was too much.  A desire demon trying to hitch a ride out, maybe, or the fear demons trying to dangle hope before crushing her once more.

“No,” he agreed, turning back the way he had come, “but we can get into the Fade with a little help from the anchor and an elf who spends way too much time asleep.  Come on.  Solas said it was ‘best not to linger’.  Like I’d want to stay here.  You realize this is my third time in the Fade.  People are going to start talking.”  He stopped when he realized she wasn’t following.

“Dwarves don’t dream,” she repeated at his questioning look, and she didn’t budge.

“I know, Hawke...that’s why I’d like to  _ go. _  Before your friends over there realize I don’t have unlimited bolts and you’re holding your weapon upside down.”

Hawke looked at her hands, realizing what she was interrupted from.  Just a quick fall, and the Fade would be gone.  No more fear.  This had to be a ploy to keep her alive...they couldn’t feed on her fear if she was dead.

“Dwarves don’t dream,” she said, twisted the staff back around.  “So I’ll have to find you myself.”

_ If I’m alive I can get free.  I can see them again.  I can see Merrill’s face light up from a single flower.  I can read with Fenris, give Dog a gift, play cards with Varric, be sexually harassed by Isabella, listen to Avaline dote on Donnic, punch Anders in the arm for staring at my bosom...  But I have to be alive, and I have to be free. _

She turned away, now more determined than ever to find an exit, and strode off into the Fade.

“Hawke, it’s  _ this  _ way.  The Inquisitor is waiting to let us back out.”

“And I’m sure Varric will be waiting to show me his magnificent dwarven hammer, or marry me for tax purposes, or just to whisper ‘I love you’ when he thinks I’m asleep,” she said sarcastically.  “I’ve heard the diatribe.  But if you’ll excuse me, I have to find an  _ actual  _ way out of the Fade.  I have a card game to lose.”

“Look at your arm,” he called after her softly.

She stopped mid stride and looked down at her ruined hand.

It looked...better.

“A trick of the mind,” she said, swallowing.  This temptation was getting harder to ignore.   _ What if he was real? _

“Hawke, please.  Just...listen.  Scouts caught sight of you just inside one of the rifts in the Western Approach.  Nobody could get close enough to contact you with the Despair demon guarding the exit, but the Inquisitor sent Dorian and I ahead to dispatch it and attempt to free you.  The men guarding the area said you were screaming and crying almost non-stop...until I arrived.  You trusted me then.  You came out of the Fade for me then.  Don’t let me down this time.  Not when you’re so close.”

“Then tell me that you don’t love me,” Hawke said, turning on him.  “It’s the only way to prove you aren’t something latched onto my feelings.”

“Hawke…” he said in aggravation.  “You’ve been unconscious - and screaming again, I might add - for two weeks.  The templars are getting itchy fingers and half want to brand you, the other half want to kill you.  We don’t have time for games.”

“Say it,” she insisted, clutching her staff close as she moved towards him.

“You know I can’t,” he said.  “Because I’ve felt the same way about you since you stuck with me after Bartrand.  Hawke, I lov-”

Hawke stabbed him through the heart with the blade of her staff.  The word died on his lips and he looked at her accusingly - before taking the form of a desire demon and disappearing into the Fade.

“Maker’s breath, Hawke, remind me not to get on your bad side,” came  _ the same voice _ .  Another Varric stood behind the demon bleeding at her feet.  She lifted her staff again, but this one raised Bianca and stepped backward.  “Hold up, there, killer.  I’ve only come to tell you that most of what he said was true, except the last part.”

“The last part?” she asked.

“I’m just a businessman.  Occasionally I’ve been known to rescue people.  When I can find them.  No love here.  Fortunately.”

Her heart tore to hear those words.

Not a desire demon.  Despair, maybe, trying to feed on the devastation she now felt pumping through her heart.  She knew it was true - had always known he was thoroughly dedicated to Bianca - and yet hearing the words fall from his lips so casually.  Despair would not let her leave.  

“You came to rescue me?” she asked.

“Always, Hawke,” Varric said with a grim smile.  “But you have to wake up on your own.”  He gestured to the creatures all around her.  “Chuckles believed you picked up some unwelcome tagalongs and they were stopping you from waking up.  Not possession, exactly, but...an anchor?  Shit, I don’t know, Hawke.  I’m physically in the Fade watching you dream.  Let’s just shoot things until it makes sense again.”

He lifted Bianca questioningly, and she spun her staff in response.

So this was real.  Or it wasn’t, and it didn’t matter.  Because there was no way out of here.  The Fade was vast,  _ and dwarves don’t dream. _

 

She awoke to lips pressed against hers.  She tasted Varric, felt his scruff, and her hands instinctively moved to his ears.  Her fingertips grazed the metal there as she pulled herself deep into that embrace.  Someone was making an amused sound, another sounded surprised, and it wasn’t until the pain of reality hit her that she let go of the dwarf’s head.

“I’m sorry...” she said in confusion, even though she was not the one that had started it.  She blinked as she looked around the room.  Cassandra was turned away and peeking back over her shoulder.  Solas was standing inches away from the white-haired Inquisitor with a bemused look on his face.  A surprised smile had stopped midway on Thenera Lavellan’s lips, and the rest of her face was flushed with embarrassment.  Hawke looked up at the dwarf who was sitting on the side of the cot.  “Varric…?”

Her call, and his answer.

“Yes, Hawke?”

“You said…”  The words faded.   _ No love here. _

“Prone to extravagant lies,” he reminded her in a serious voice.  “I keep telling people and nobody ever-”

She pulled him back into a kiss, hands tugging his leather duster off.  He pulled away just enough to speak.

“Hawke...there are  _ guests  _ here,” he warned her.  But he didn’t argue.  He didn’t tell her that he didn’t feel the same way.

“I spent half a year in the Fade fighting for my life, wet myself in front of a templar, cried in front of people I’m supposed to be Champion to... _ they can fucking watch for all I care. _ ”

“Heaving bosom,” was all Varric had to say, and Hawke could hear footsteps retreating from the room as well as muttered apologies.

“I don’t even know if this is real,” she admitted, tugging his tunic off over his head to find him staring at her in amusement.  “I may still be in the Fade.”  He stilled her feverish movements with calming hands.  He was breathing hard.

“It might not be,” he said.  “Who am I to say.  This shit’s weird.  I gave you up for dead, saved, you, gave you up for  _ possessed _ , walked in through a rift just in time to hear you arguing with me about who loved who, and then watched myself die.  That doesn’t happen every day.”

“He said he loved me when I told him to lie,” she said, kissing the top of his ear.  “You’d never tell the truth if given the chance.”

“But you believed my lie,” Varric reminded her.  “I fed you agony in a bottle and you  _ still  _ didn’t look nearly as hurt as when I said that I was there on business.  Shit, Hawke...how did we miss this?”

“Too busy playing cards and drinking?” Hawke said with a shrug, reaching for his pants.

“Hawke, stop,” he said, pushing her hands away from his clothing and holding them against her  _ heaving bosom _ .  “You were just trapped in fear hell, and then in hell again.  Your decision making abilities are probably hampered.”

“Varric,” Hawke pleaded, “I’ve wanted you since we met.  Not...this, but  _ you _ .  Your mind, your companionship, your wit, your heart.  You’re...amazing.  This isn’t gratitude.”

“The answer’s still no,” Varric said.  “Let’s be content to just…” He choked on the word, “love each other for a little while.  If you’re still in the mood in a few days when your fight or flight has worn off...then I will give you a story to make Isabella blush.  Deal?”

“Two sovereigns says I’m still in the mood in a few days,” she said with a nervous giggle.

“That would make you a prostitute,” Varric said with a smile, kissing her forehead. _  “So I’ll take that bet.” _


End file.
